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Reminiscence 



BY 



Maude Williamson 



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Copyrigkt 1912 by 
Alice Maude Williamson 



©CI.A329890 



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Thi« little book is lovingly inscribed to 
M. AUSTIN HARRIS 
Dean of Elmira College 



DEDICATED 



To the S. S. Titanic, Launched from 
Belfast, Lough., April 2nd, 1912. 
Foundered off the coast of New- 
foundland, April 14th, 1912. 



Free from her moorings the mighty 
monster breaks, 

What mammoth swells the lofty mon- 
arch makes, 

What grandeur like her own can pen 
recall? 

Proud, haughty, grand and noble, 
praised by all. 

See! now she sails,, a spectacle of 

pride! 
In queenly dignity she sweeps the 

ocean wide, 
What majesty and grace she does 

acquire, 
What inward hopes and thoughts she 

does inspire. 

On, then, fair maiden, thou brightest 

of the morn, 
Youth, beauty, grandeur, thy noble 

brow adorn. 
Here take thy cargo, full confidence 

have we? 
,Our loved, our best, our dearest, we 

confide to thee. 

Thus onward nobl-e queen, we trust 

in thee, 
Art thou not made the pride of all the 

sea? 
Forward then noble one! home is 

not far away, 
Bring us from pleasure, "Home" the 

dream of day. 

What! Ho! Titanic, slack thy speed 
apace, 

4 



Dost thou not know the pilot, Death, 
is in the race? 

Dost thou not see his gaunt menac- 
ing form? 

Take care, he rides beside thee, queen 
of morn. 

Onward! but hark! dost thou not 

hear the cry? 
Is there no whisper that King Death 

is nigh? 
Is there no warning of his coming 

fight? 
Or have we lost faith in thee? thou 

queen of might. 

Forward! thou queen of beauty, rule 

the sea, 
'Twas but for one moment that we 

doubted thee, 
Did we not trust to thee, our best^ 

our all? 
Then bring them safely home what- 

e'er befall? 

Onward! then Queen, but hark, the 
mighty sound, 

That shakes the seething waters, and 
the air resounds, 

With some foul mockery, 'tis a phan- 
tom seen— 

'Tis not our ship, not our gallant 
barque? our queen, our queen. 

Press on thou king of death, pilot 

the way? 
We reckoned not with thee, what 

deep dismay! 
We knew not thee, our captain, till 

thy work was done, 
and e'er we knew our ship, our faith 

begun. 

On then! thou captain death, we thee 
defy, 

5 



We at least can show thee, how thy 

victims die; 
Forward to meet thee, see! we take 

our stand? 
Let thou our women, safely reach the 

land. 

Press on then! one last, long, fierce 

goodbye, 
Hasten, then, loved ones, the boats 

are nigh! 
Our captain death, is at the wheel, 

we will reach the shore. 
How fierce, how strong, how firmly 

does he pull the oar. 

On, onward! to thy doom, ah! down 

she sank. 
Where's now our ocean queen, of 

highest rank? 
Hast thou then fallen from thy lofty 

pride? 
To sink like all our hopes, beneath 

the tide. 

On then! ye waters, smooth the spot! 
"Leave not one ripple there to make 

one blot. 
Foolish and vain we trusted all t^. 

thee, 
Thus ends our pride like thee, 

beneath the sea. 

""Nearer to Thee, Oh, God, nearer to 

Thee" 
Hark! to the music o'er the gloomy 

sea, 
Hark! to the ship-wrecked, singing 

"pull for the shore" 
Heroes! every one of them, heroes! 

twice o'er. 

Forward! no spade prepares the 

grave, 
INo flowers to plant, no turf to raise, 

beneath the wave. 

6 



O! what a burial, where! where, ther 

green field? 
But see! the mist descends the woe. 

to shield. 

Onward! once more, our heroes, lead3 

the way, 
Their names immortal, found till endr 

less day. 
Farewell! thy heroes, thou hast 

reached the shore, 
Thy gavest life itself, could thou give 

more? 

Hurrah, hurrah! hurrah, once more 

we cry, 
Our noble men have taught us how 

to die. 
Bravo! ye heroes, we are proud of 

thee. 
And here proclaim thee ''martyrs of 
love, men, heroes of the sea." 



A VISION OF PALESTINE.. 



Weary in mind and body. 

And troubled with mighty care; 
For I left the dear Old Country; 

With prospects bright and fair. 
Alas! for my ambition, 

Alas! for my fairy dreams; 
Gone! like the mist of morning. 

No future for me it seems. 

Weary one night with the struggle^ 

When I lay down to rest; 
There came a beautiful vision, 

My sinking faith to test, 
I stood in the ancient city. 

Where the Saviour often trod, 
'Mid the beautiful scenes of Palestine;. 

The chosen place of God. 

I saw the broad white roadway, 
With its steep and winding hill. 

7 



And the beautiful, stately palm trees, 
That gave me a joyous thrill. 

I saw the simple hshermen; 
Some standmg at their door; 

And a crowd of watchful eager folk; 
On the Galileean shore. 

I wondered why they were waiting, 

So I joined the eager crowd, 
And heard of a new strange Prophet, 

From many voices loud; 
Of mighty deeds of healing; 

Of peace to the troubled mind; 
Of a tender, pitying master. 

Who to all poor was kind. 

And I wondered as I waited, 

Amidst that eager throng; 
If I asked him would He help me, 

When He would come along; 
For I was poor and friendless, 

No work to earn my bread. 
And He was Great and Mighty; 

"And loved the poor," they said. 

So, surely He would help me; 

This rich and Noble One, 
And hark! there's someone saying, 

He is a Great King's Son. 
But see! He must be coming; 

The crowd are making way. 
And someone's in the roadway, 

"Oh! this is Him,'' they say. 

Is that the Mighty Prophet? 

The Great and Noble Son, 
Who comes down yonder roadway. 

Now praised by everyone. 
Why, he looks poor and weary; 

How simple is His dress; 
Could I to this poor stranger 

My poverty confess? 

No, no! I will not tell Him, 
I'll keep my grim despair; 

I'm' poor, but He seems poorer, 
He would not hear my prayer. 



Oh, why^did I stand waiting 

Amidst that eager throng, 
To see a noble prince? Behold! 

A poor man comes along. 

But what is this they're doing? 

Ah, see! they gather round, 
And there's the dumb and crippled, 

The blind! But what's that sound? 
'Tis loud and glad rejoicing! 

"Of someone healed," they say. 
Oh, surely He's the Prophet! 

I'll tell Him, Yes! I may. 

"Oh, Master! Master, hear me." 

"My daughter, what would'st 
thou?" 
"Dear Lord, I'm poor and friendless; 

Oh, help me! lest I die; 
For I am weak and weary; 

No work to earn my bread; 
Oh, give me work, dear Master!" 

And unto me He said: 

"My daughter, why so anxious. 

And troubled with such care? 
The earth is but a shadow. 

Go seek a land more fair, 
Where pain and sorrow are unknown, 

And all is glad and bright. 
No weariness or hunger there; 

No sea, or darksome night. 

"But render unto Caesar 

The things that Caesar's are, 
And let no worldly things of earth 

Your chance of Heaven mar." 
I knelt upon my knee, and bowed 

To that Great Holy One; 
And, stooping down, He touched my 
head: 

"Go, child! thy work's begun." 



^2^nd Oh! His form so beautiful, 

It thrilled me through and through; 
And, stretching forth, I kissed in 
haste 

The dusty robe of blue. 
Though I was disappointed, 

How glad my heart did seem, 
And I have learnt a lesson, 

Although 'twas but a dream. 



A BUNCH OF SHAMROCK. 



^Only a bunch of shamrock, 

Fresh from the dear old land, 
'Only a bunch of shamrock, 

Sent by a distant hand; 
Only a bunch of shamrock. 

To lighten weary toil; 
Only a bunch of shamrock, 

That grew on the dear old soil. 

'Only a bunch of shamrock. 

To ease an aching heart; 
Only a bunch of shamrock. 

That makes the teardrops start. 
Only a bunch of shamrock, 

Sweet memory of years now fled; 
Only a bunch of shamrock. 

Wet with the tears I've shed. 

Only a bunch of shamrock, 

Sent o'er the distant foam;~ 
Only a bunch of shamrock. 

But dear to the one from home; 
Only a bunch of shamrock, 

Remembrance of the past; 
Only a bunch of shamrock. 

Too beautiful to last. 

10 



TO THE MEMORY OF KING 
EDWARD. 



(This poem was published in the 
American, Canadian, English and 
Irish newspapers, and obtained for 
the writer a letter from Her Majesty, 
Queen Alexandra.) 

Into the Heavens the stars had sank, 

Refusing to illume. 
And hushed and awed was the silent, 
night; 

A nation was in gloom. 
The bells toll out their solemn kneli;. 

And flags fly half-mast high; 
Our good King Edward breathes no 
more. 

Our king is dead, they cry.. 

Peace was the motto throughout his 
reign, 

And peace his daily life. 
All mighty nations loved and blessed 

This conqueror of strife. 
A mighty empire mourns aloud 

The spirit that has fled. 
True, loyal subjects deeply grieve 

The monarch* who is dead. 

And faithful to his trust was he; 

Beloved by all around; 
He proved a man, as well as king^. 

This nation's always found. 
No more his stately form will grace 

Our royal courts of fame, 
In hushed and solemn tones we speak* 

His loved and kingly name. 

Our widowed queen, with thee we 
weep — 
Our proud and lovely queen. 
Whose tender heart is crushed and- 
bowed 
With sorrow deep and! keen.\. 

Hi 



Within the darkened chamber 

She doth her vigil keep, 
For there her love, her husband, 
king, 

Lies cold in death's long sleep. 

God bless thee, Alexandra, 

And heal thy broken heart. 
And He hath said, "A little while, 

Then never more to part." 
He knows and loves thee, weeping 
queen. 

His love will never wane; 
And He will, in His own good time, 

Unite you both again. 

Farewell, our king, farewell to thee, 

Our noble, peaceful king. 
Whose sudden passing from our 
midst 

Did grief and sorrow bring. 
That thou hast lived and died a king. 

Thy dying words did tell; 
We trust King George may prove 
like thee, 

A man and king as well. 

Elmira, N. Y. 



TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF 
MARK TWAIN. 



Away in a little churchyard 

On the top of a grassy hill. 
Resting in peaceful slumber, 

Passed from all earthly ill, 
There lies a friend, a father, 

Whom now a nation mourn, 
Whose words of wit and wisdom 

Our many homes adorn. 

This tomb bedecked with trophies 
Of Nature's emblems fair. 

Floral gifts from hearts of those 
Who loved his genius rare. 

These simple flowers the children 
gave, 

12 



All fragrant in their bloom; 
The rich, those costly blossoms 
Which now surround the tomb. 

This wreath of mountain laurel, 

The dearest and the best 
Because an aged and loving friend, 

True love brought to the test. 
He climbed the hill at midnight 

To pick the laurel green, 
And through the night 'twas twined 
in shape 

With many a tear unseen. 

These loving tributes that you see 

But mark the passing here 
Of this, our Master of the Pen, 

To memory ever dear, 
A man of mind and heart so great, 

Of genius rich and grand, 
Thus passeth from our midst indeed, 

A loved and noble man. 

And though his voice and pen are 
still, 

His work will ever bring 
A memory fresh within our breast, 

Just like the breath of spring. 
His loving heart shall beat no more 

That loved all Nature fair — 
Even the beasts of burden. 

He for them had a care. 

Farewell, farewell, our grand old man, 

On earth we meet no more; 
For thou hast joined thy loved ones 

On that eternal shore; 
And little children whom you loved 

Will watch for thee in vain. 
And many a heart and home will 
miss 

The counsel of Mark Twain. 

Elmira, N. Y. 

13 



BEHIND THE SCENES. 



Girls! I've a date just after nine, 
Please hurry up the play. 

We can't, the girls have not got here. 
So throw your date away. 

The audience are in their seats, 
And stamping with their feet; 

I'm s\ire it's time the girls were here, 
And time to start the treat. 

Come, let me give the programmes 
out, 
'Twill make a kind of show. 
Just harken! "give the programmes 
out;" 
You make me laugh, ho, ho! 

O! what does keep the other girl? 

I do wish she was here. 
It's after eight, she won't come now, 

I'm nearly sure, my dear. 

You really are a comforter, 
And one of Job's, at that; 

Now there she is, just landed now, 
I know her by her hat. 

Just look! they're now gone up the 
stairs. 

Go tell them to come down; 
You tell them we are waiting here, 

And not to stay around. 

I cannot find them up the stairs. 

Oh, dear! what shall be done? 
Oh, there you are! Now hurry, girls, 

It's time the play begun. 

Oh, girls! I do not know my part. 
And I have lost the play. 

Have any of you got the book? 
Or tell me what to say? 



14 



Well, really, this is quite a joke! 

Just do the best you know. 
There is no time to read the play, 

So make some kind of show. 

Oh, dear! I've lost the telegram, 
I'm sure it's up the stair. 

Just look at these old trousers, girls, 
I stoop and then they tear. 

Oh, wait! the maid has lost her cap, 
There's always something here. 

See, there it is along with mine. 
Oh, thank you, you're a dear. 

My umbrella, where is it? 

You left it in the room; 
Oh, yes, I did, please fetch me it; 

This play will be my doom! 

Oh, girls! a glass of water, please, 
My throat is parched and dry. 

That's ten you drank since I stood 
here, 
I'm sure you're like to die. 

Well, all is over, I'm so glad! 

And everything went well; 
The girls all took their parts so nice — 

Oh, mercy! there's the bell. (Exit.) 



ALL ABOUT A DOLLAR. 



(An incident of a Canadian employ- 
ment Office.) 

A simple maiden rather meek. 
Went forth employment for to seek; 
In glancing o'er the ads one night. 
She saw a place to her delight; 
'Twas in a country grocery store, 
The wages twenty, quite a score — 
And so she tripped away with glee, 
Hoping to successful be; 

15 



But when she reached the happy spot, 
A stern old gent said, "Have you got 
A dollar, for it is our fee?" 
"But have you got the place?" said 

she. 
"Oh, yes!" said he, "but you must pay 
A dollar first; this is our way, 
And if you cannot give the bill, 
There's other girls I know who will." 
"I have not got it now," said she, 
"But if the place you get for me, 
ril give the dollar then to you; 
And this is all that I can do." 
"Come back again at two to me. 
And don't forget to bring the fee; 
It is our rule that you must pay — 
And that is all I have to say." 
Then straightway off the maiden 

went, 

For in her mind a thought gave vent. 
That she would go to Mrs. C. 
And tell her all about the fee; 
But when she told dear Mrs. C, 
That lady seemed to doubtful be. 
"To pay the. dollar to him first, 
I've heard of things, but that's the 
worst. 

Go back again to him and say, 
The dollar that you will not pay 
Until the place he gets for you, 
And that is all that you can do." 
So back the maiden went at two, 
The gent again to interview; 
But when she got there he did holler, 
"Miss, have you brought to me the 

dollar?" 
"Sir, if the place you get for me, 
I then will give you the fee; 
This dollar here, it is the last; 
To give you this I'd have to fast. 
For if I did not get the place, 
Again the world I'd have to face; 
Thus you would have my only dollar, 
And I with hunger then could holler." 

16 



A fierce young man spoke up and 

said — 
His hair was black and his eyelids 

red, 
His face just rose above his collar — • 
"No work done here without a dol- 
lar." 
The maiden sadly turned away, 
And onward went that weary day, 
Still murmuring as she reached the 

hall, 
"He has no place to give at all. 
He put the ad in," she did holler, 
"To take from girls like me a dollar." 
Now all you simple maidens fair, 
When you are seeking w^ork beware; 
Don't go to places where they say, 
"The white trash sit the other way,'^ 
Or where a notice on the wall 
Just reads that you must not recall 
Your past ex-pe-ri-ence or you — 
Must to the office bid adieu. 
Don't go to where they say to you, 
"If you don't go to church, you'll do; 
Our family needs a girl to stay 
At home to make the meals that day.'* 
'Tis just the body they will pay. 
And you can throw your soul away. 
'Tis just these little things, you see^ 
That makes the servant problem be. 
The maid some folks would like to 

hire 
Must never eat or never tire; 
She must be deaf, and blind, and 

dumb. 
But always keep the work a-hum. 
The agent only sees the dollar. 
The victim often has to holler. 



MEMORIES OF ERIN. 

Oh! beautiful vale of my country, 
Oh! beautiful isle of the sea; 

How dear to my heart is thy memory^ 

How dear to my soul art thee. 

17 



There's lands more abounding in 
riches, 
And lands more imposing and 
grand; 
But dearer to me is thy beauty, 
Sweet vale of my own native land. 

Thy castles all splendor and great- 
ness, 

Thy sea with its breakers of foam; 
My heart wants to know thee, acushla, 

The shores of my dear native home. 
Thy mountains so rugged and lofty, 

Thy cliflFs stretching over the sea, 
The happy and gay-hearted peasants, 

Who work all the day on the lea. 

In memory of thee ever dreaming, 

I wander aloof from the crowd. 
Who think me so strange and fore- 
boding, 

So cold and so stupidly proud. 
They wrong thee, my beautiful Erin, 

Whose daughters are timid and shy, 
*Tis thus they mistake thee, my 
country, 

Whose aims are so lofty and high. 

Farewell to the hope of my memory. 

Farewell to thee, cushla machree; 
Yet ever in dreams I'll behold thee, 

My beautiful Isle of the sea. 
And if I should lose thee forever, 

And pass to the land of the blest, 
Then waft me ye spirits to Erin, 

There calmly my ashes will rest. 

Elmira College. 
18 



HOME. 

Who does not love the dear old place 

called home, 
Who does not love the meadows 

sweet of home; 
The ripple of the brook, the glen and 

shady nook, 
Who does not love the dear old 

place called home? 

Who does not breathe a tender sigh 

for home. 
Who does not think of mother there 

at home, 
And often miss the care that met you 

everywhere; 
Who does not bless the dear old 

place called home? 

God bless the dear old place we once 

called home, 
God bless the dear old folks that 

made it home; 
God bless the land of birth, where'er 

it be on earth; 
There's naught to equal all that's 

home, sweet home. 



TOLSTOI. 



(Written for the Advertiser.) 
Weep! ye peasants, weep! 

Weep! ye who loved him dear, 
Thy light has gone, thy lamp has 
failed, 
Weep o'er his bier. 

Pray! poor peasants, pray! 

For him whose life has gone; 
He loved you deeply, well — 

Chant forth thy song. 

19 



Cover his lowly bier 

With branches of fir and pine, 
Emblems of immortality 

A lasting sign. 

This lowly hut so bare 

Is just as he would die; 
To him such lowly pomp 

Would seem most high. 

Thus bring him slowly on 
To where he wished to rest — 

The hillock 'neath poverty oak, 
To him 'twere best. 

In childhood's happy days 
'Twas there he loved to play, 

And there he now must rest; 
Bear him away. 

There did the peasants meet 

To voice their wrong 
That sank within his breast 

Like one sad song. 

There let him calmly rest, 
The father of all the poor, 

The shepherd of the peasant flock, 
To them the door. 

And may the stars shine forth 
Their thousand twinkling eyes. 

Guarding the lonely grave 
Wherein he lies. 
Elmira, N. Y., Nov. 25, 1910. 



TO THE LOVING MEMORY OF 
ANNIS FORD EASTMAN, PAS- 
TOR OF PARK CHURCH, 
ELMIRA, NEW YORK. 

Hush, hush, ye moaning winds; 

Ye tossing willows cease; 
Can ye not rest for one brief space 
of time 

In perfect peace? 

20 



Can ye not pause awhile, 

In memory of our dead; 
Or must thou hasten on without a 
thought 

Of the soul that's fled? 

Ye golden-tinted leaves, 

Old Autumn's beauteous sign, 

Ye are but the gilded robe that speaks 
Of fading time. 

Thus we forgive thee, O moaning 
wind, 
And thou, ever-weeping willow, 
Thou hast wafted on us the warning 
sound 
Of death's dark billow. 

Thou hast given the warning sigh, 
Thou hast tolled her funeral knell; 

Her great Divining eye but saw in 
thee 
A sad farewell. 

Yet even as thou goeth on. 
Thus will her life-work lead. 

She has but left a straightlong path 
Of planted seed. 

A perfect prop of loving strength, 

An ever-flowing stream; 
But words fail to tell how deep the 
loss 

Of God's sunbeam. 

Is that beautiful form gone home, 
Is that voice forever still, 

Or is it but some cruel dream 
That makes us chill? 

No dream, but keen reality. 
For our beloved has gone; 

Snatched from our midst by the 
reaper Death, 
For a brighter dawn. 

21 



Farewell, sweet, gracious spirit, 
Thou jewel of sparkling light, 

Thou hath paved for us a perfect path 
on earth 
To Heaven bright. 
Elmira, N. Y. 



THE PALACE OF THOUGHT. 



I built for myself a palace of thought, 

In a garden of mystery fair. 
Where I could wander, and think, and 
plan, 
Away from the world and care. 
I made it as grand as a mind could 
make — 
This palace all built of air; 
For I was the lord of that kingly 
place, 
No demon could enter there. 

I reigned supreme and my thoughts 
ran high, 
I pictured a clamoring throng. 
Who strove to enter my palace of 
thought. 
With laughter, and jest, and song. 
I held the doors and laughed in glee, 
As a conqueror who gained the 
fray, 
For the highest bidder could never 
take 
The train of my thoughts away. 

I laugh at their struggle, their clamor, 
and strife, 
I laugh, for they never can buy 
My kingdom of thought is so firm and 
strong, 
My walls of ambition are high. 
No demon shall crumble my walls of 
fame. 
Where greatness and power doth 
reign; 

22 



No stranger shall enter my palace of 
air, 
My kingdom of thoughts to wane. 

I'll open my window and gaze with- 
out, 
None enters, I hold the key; 
I'll ask each one of this clamoring 
throng 
To tell what they want of me. 
I'll answer them bold, and send them 
on, 
My greatness and power to prate, 
And reign supreme in my palace of 
air, 
In visions of lordly state. 

What want ye of me, ye two who 
stand. 
Aloof from the others there? 
We are envy and jealousy, sister's 
twain, 
And would enter thy palace fair. 
Away, away! from my sacred gate, 

I have no place for thee. 
Ye are vultures of night who would 
destroy, 
]My ■■rlom of thoughts, and me. 

And / art thou with the pallid 

cheeV, 
And eyes like a frightened deer? 
Oh, help me I pray thee! and hide 
me hence. 
For I am thy sister, Fear. 
Thou art no sister of mine, O, 
coward. 
Touch not my palace of air. 
I'll have nought to do with a fiend 
like thee. 
Go seek out a home elsewhere. 

And who art thou with the smooth, 
fair brow? 
And ye with the clouded face? 

23 



We are slander and spite, two com- 
rades true, 
And born of the oldest race. 
Then go ye hence, I'll have nought 
with thee, 
Ye demons who taint the air. 
Begone! lest the breath of thy evil 
hearts, 
Should shatter my palace fair. 

I have sent them away, and con- 
quered them all. 
I can live in my palace of air; 
My vv'alls are strong, and my thoughts 
are high, ^ 
And who can with me compare? 
I'll shut up my windows and rest in 
peace, 
I can withstand them all. 
Secure I remain in my kingdom of 
thoughts, 
For nothing can make them fall. 

But who is that sorrowing one with- 
out? 
And why does she linger there? 
I'll ask her in tones of stern com- 
mand. 
To tell me why she should dare? 
What brings thee to me? thy sorrow- 
ing one. 
Go hither, I've nothing with you, 
No one such as thou, must enter my 
world, 
So I bid thee a stern adieu. 

Great One, I am Memory, sad and 
lone. 
To thee, I would fain recall. 
Some pictures you left in the outer 
world, 
Neglected upon my wall. 
I brought them to thee for thy palace 
of ai" . 
Please give txiem a place within, 

24 



Lest envy and jealousy, slander and 
spite, 
Should trample them in their sin. 

I have no pictures, on Memory's wall. 

There, nothing belongs to me, 
But as you seem sure— thy sorrowing 
one, 
Pray tell what they are to me? 
Come enter my palace and tell thy 
tale, 
In words that are firm and bold, 
Thou canst not trouble my kingdom 
of thoughts, 
Because thou art worn and old. 

One picture there is of a little child^ 

Who prayed at a mother's knee. 
Thou foolish and ignorant one, pray 
tell. 

What this has to do with me? 
And one there is of a meadow svv^eet. 

Where a maiden loved to play. 
And here! a cottage on the hill, 

"Deserted now," they say. 

Another there is of a churchyard old, 

A grave 'neath the fallen snow, 
Neglected, forgotten, it still remains; 

A mound with a hidden woe. 
And last of all, a lock of hair, 

A silvery lock of gray; 
'Twas found in a worn and faded 
book. 

Where some one loved to pray. 

Pray tell me if these are thine. 
Great One, 
These pictures on ^Memory's walL 
For I must hasten without to find. 

An owner who claims them all. 
They are mine! these pictures. Oh 
memory sad! 
I had buried them in the past. 
But thou hast brought them again 
to me, 

25 



Like the snarl of the wintry blast. 
Oh where is my beautiful palace of 
air? 
My palace of thought so grand, 
With its wallsi so high and its doors 
so strong, 
The fairest in all the land. 
I laughed as I conquered them, one 
by one. 
I mocked at the clamoring crowd, 
But I opened my gates to a Memory 
old, 
And she brought me a mourning 
shroud. 

Go! Memory, and live in my palace of 
air, 
There nothing remains for me, 
And hang my pictures upon its 
walls. 
And keep for yourself the key. 
My palace of thoughts that I built so 
high, 
Now lonely and desolate stands, 
My beautiful palace of lofty pride, 
Is wounded by Memory's hands. 

I built for myself a palace of thoughts, 

In a garden of mystery fair; 
Where I could wander, and think, and 
plan. 
Away from the world and care. 
I made it as grand as a mind could 
make. 
This palace all built of air, 
But I reckoned not with a memory 
old. 
Who entered and found me there. 

26 



A GARDEN OF SHATTERED 
HOPES. 



I gazed on my beautiful garden, 
bathed in the soft light of the morn- 
ing sun. The sparkling fountain, the 
sweet pansy beds, and various other 
blossoms, all very dear to me, and 
a feeling of pride stole over me, as 
I looked thereon. The humming bees, 
the singing birds, and beautiful flow- 
ers, lent music and fragrance to the 
air; everything was bright and cheer- 
ful: Surely this was morning gay! 
How happy I was, as I scampered 
after my little one, who had picked 
an apple from my favorite tree, and 
was fast enjoying its delicious sweet- 
ness! Yes, I was happy as I pressed 
her to my heart, in a fond embrace. 
''Surely this is an earthly Heaven, too 
beautiful to last," I murmured. 

Evening had come, and the dark 
shadows of approaching night were 
rapidly casting their mantle over my 
beautiful garden; I could hear the 
soft splash of the fountain, and the 
distant twit, twit, of a restless bird, 
from the top of some tall tree. All 
was hushed and still; I tried to calm 
my wildly beating heart, that ever 'mid 
the hush of the evening, seemed to 
beat out a wild tattoo; Your child! 
Your child will die! My child! my 
little one, so full of life only this 
morning, now lay in the silent hush 
of evening, at the portal of death's 
dark door, awaiting the crisis of the 
midnight hour. Oh God! "Would my 
sinking heart were calm as Thy eve- 
ning!" 

Night had come, dark and stormy 
27 



night, raging in wild fierce fury. The 
windows rattled, the doors creaked 
and groaned, and the solitary hoot 
and shriek of the owl gave a strange 
foreboding of coming ill. In my bitter 
anguish of soul, I gave but one 
thought to my garden; I knew that it 
was ruined. Ruined, as was the one 
bright hope of my life. For the storm 
had indeed come and passed over me 
in its fury, shattering my once fair 
garden of hopes, for my little one, 
my bright sunbeam of the morning 
gay, had died. 



A GARDEN OF SHATTERED 
HOPES. 



I gazed on my beautiful garden, 

There all was bright and gay. 
My gentle, rippling fountain. 

My flowers in sweet array. 
The sun shone forth in glory; 

The birds were flitting past, 
I looked, and softly murmured; 

"Too beautiful to last." 

I stood within my garden, 

The evening shadows fell. 
Across the silvery fountain, 

Across my pansy dell. 
My heart was beating wildly, 

I tried to hush the cry, 
That 'mid the calm of evening. 

Told me my child would die. 

A storm was raging widly, 

It raged throughout the night. 
Alas! my lovely garden, 

'Twould be a ruined sight. 
My heart was crushed with anguish, 

My hopes all scattered wide, 
Just ruined like the garden; 

My little one had died. 

28 



VANQUISHED DESPAIR 



An Incident of Saint Cecelia 
D' Music. 



Lead on thou mocking world, 
Ye have driven me to despair. 

Care I for thy taunting laugh, 
Need I for thy malice care. 

Yea, mock me with sneers and scorn, 
'Tis all ye have left for me. 

Now make me a desperate fiend, 
And gloat o'er the ruin ye see. 

Come on let us finish the rest, 
No need to leave work undone. 

Break, ruin and kill the soul. 
And end what thy imps begun. 

Why should I try to resist. 

Look! nothing but woe for me; 

So I'll drink of the brimming cup, 
And launch on the perilous sea. 

Here goes! I will end it all, 

And join in the world's deep mire, 

I am tired of the struggle and strife, 
My mind and soul are afire. 

Here goes then! but hark to the 
sound? 

Ye gods, have my senses gone? 
Or is it the music of Heaven, 

That enters my soul like the dawn. 

'Tis music, glad music I hear. 
Ye spirits in lands of the fair; 

Ye surely are calling poor me, 

From out of the depth of despair. 

I'll follow thee, spirit of light, 

Oh, lead me to pastures of rest, 
And help me to banish the wrong. 
By the power of the good and the 
best. 

29 



Cecelia, thou saint so divine, 
Thy spirit of music and song; 

Who saved a poor soul from despair. 
And cheated the world of a wrong. 

May the angel who watches o'er thee, 
Take pity and bear me away, 

From the evils that kill the soul; 
To the dawn of a nobler day. 



MOLLY'S CHRISTMAS GIFT. 



Merrily the bells were ringing, 
All seemed bright and gay, 

Little children, too, were singing, 
This was Christmas Day. 

In a bare and lonely attic, 

Prayed a little child, 
"Send Dear Santa here this morning, 

Jesus, meek and mild." 

Mother's gone to work till evening. 

And I'm blind, you see, 
But I want to feel the good things, 

That he brings to me. 

Yes, I knew he'd bring me something, 

I can hear it now. 
As it flutters down the chimney. 

Making such a row. 

Ain't it lucky that my mother. 

Had no fire to light, 
'Cause the thing that Santa sent me, 

Would have been a sight. 

Why, it is a little birdie. 

That he's brought to me. 
For I feel its tiny feathers, 

Though 1 cannot see. 

Oh, I love you little birdie, 

I will keep you warm, 
In my hankie I will hide you. 

From the cold and storm. 

30 



Santa knew you'd make me happy, 

When my mother's gone. 
For he knew that I could listen, 

When you sang your song. 

It was but a little sparrow, 

Fallen in its flight, 
Down the chimney to the fire-place, 

Such a sorry sight. 

But it cheered the dull bare garret, 

And its inmate there, 
She was blind and could not see it, 

It to her was fair. 

Thus dear loving Blessed Saviour, 

Hear us when we call, 
Thou who marks a little sparrow, 

Should it chance to fall. 

How much more are we? Thy 
children, 

Than this tiny thing, 
Who was sent to little Molly, 

Christmas joy to bring. 



THE PASSING OF THE 
PRINCESS. 



Fairy form of dancing light, 
Where, oh, where, are you tonight? 
I have sought for you all day. 
But I find you gone away. 

Princess with the sunny hair, 

And the angel face so fair; 

Eyes like gleaming stars so bright, 

Where, oh, where, are you tonight? 

Gone the sound of pattering feet, 
And the merry laugh so sweet; 
When at games we use to play, 
Princess, you have gone away. 

31 



When we took our daily walks, 
Oh, how many were our talks 
I can see your smiling face, 
When with you I ran a race. 

In an old worn, faded book. 
When I chance to take a look; 
There a withered flower I see, 
That the princess gave to me 

Fairy Princess, now adieu, 
I will ever think of you. 
Honeysuckle, dear to me. 
Keep this token. Yours the Bee. 



SENSES OF THE CENSUS. 



(Written for the Advertiser.) 
No good to say if I had known, 

Or if I only had. 
Done this or that, or so and so, 

This would not be so bad. 

When we neglect to do these things. 
Then words have no avail, 

For we are told just what to do, 
Our conscience will not fail. 

If I had done just as I've said, 
And put the figures down, 

I'd guessed the Census all but two, 
And kept the prize in town. 

And gained Elmira some small note, 
• For really it's a shame, 
That other towns can win our prize, 
But we are all to blame. 

For really we seem half asleep, 

And let our laurels pass, 
To other folks more wide awake, 

And then we sigh: "Alas!" 
32 



If only we had done this thing, 

Or made a better stand, 
Elmira now would have her place, 

The smartest in the land. 

Then let us strive with all our might. 

To make the population 
Just what we meant it should have 
been, 

A_nd not such desolation. 

And when next time the State will 
come, 
To take again the Census, 
They'll find our boys in wedlock 
bound, 
To all' our lovely wenches. 
Elmira, Sept. 3, 1910. 

(The writer ^on this occasion won 
fourth prize in this competition.) 



EXPECTATIONS. 



Why should I sigh and ponder o'er 
Those things that were to be; 

I'm but a tiny bubble. 
Of poor humanity. 

I dropped into this world with 

But a very little splash, 
And when I make my exit, 

The bubble will go smash. 

Now, why should I sit pining 
For a step upon the stairs, 

Or why should I lie breathing, 
The same old-fashioned prayer? 

Or why should I be grieving 
About my many wrongs, 

And ay, be e'er resenting. 
The rich and gayer throngs. 

33 



Or why should I be grumbling 

About my weary lot, 
And stealing time complaining. 

Because that things were not. 

'Twere better to go building, 

Grand castles in the air, 
Than be forever heaping, 

A heavy load of care. 

Much better to be cheerful, 

Much better to be gay. 
Than wait in dread expecting 

Some cloud to come today. 

The world is far too busy 

To think of such as me, 
Why should I sigh and, ponder o'er 

Those things that were to be. 



THE CROSS OF CONG. 



(This ancient Cross of Ireland, 
which is a masterpiece of Irish art, 
is now in the National Museum of 
Dublin. It is made of black oak 
sheathed in copper and covered with 
fine gold, beautifully designed and 
finished. It is supposed to contain a 
portion of the cross whereon Christ 
suffered. The cross was formerly 
kept in the Abbey of Cong, until the 
ruin of that edifice, when it disap- 
peared. It was found many years 
after, hidden in an old oak chest in an 
humble peasant cottage in Erin.) 

"My Friend!" you seem amused and 
shocked, 

That we should reverence so 
This dear old ancient Cross of ours; 

'Twas made long years ago. 
Yes, it contains a portion of 

The Cross whereon He died, 

34 



The Blessed Saviour of the world — 
Well, stranger, you may chide. 

Just let me tell the story, "Friend,"" 

'Twas many years ago, 
When Ireland flourished at her best,. 

No thought of coming woe. 
Her Faith, the ancient Faith of time. 

Was kept with reverence sweet, 
Who thought that wolf-dogs in dis- 
guise. 

Were crouching at her feet? 

This Cross was made for Erin's king. 

And made with sacred care, 
A thing of marvelous workmanship. 

On every curve a prayer. 
Yes, many years of labor, "Friend," 

But labor filled with love; 
And prayers of deep devotion true, 

Arose to Heaven above. 

The Cross was made; the maker's 
name 

Was at the foot entwined 
As if he craved a sacred prayer. 

When he the Cross resigned. 
For years it stood within the church,. 

A thing of beauty rare, 
A mentor of an ancient faith 

And One who suffered there. 

Dark came the morn for Ireland dear! 

Invaders reached the shore. 
And crumbled down her churches 
grand, 

And carried off her store. 
And thus her greatness all has gone, 

Her faith alone is left; 
This, she has kept though many a 
pang 

Her loyal heart has cleft. 

The Cross within a peasant's hut. 
Was found when years had fled; 

35 



Who placed it there? 'Twas never 
known — 

Strange mysteries of the dead. 
Some fleeing priest or peasant brave, 

Snatched up the Cross in haste, 
And hid it where no cruel hand 

Could make it woeful waste. 

Who saved the Cross 'twas never 
known. 
Who made it, this it tells. 
Dear Cross the love that fashioned 
thee. 
All hallowed in thee dwells. 
The hands that made thee now are 
still, 
The mind that planned, no more. 
And he who saved thee, death has 
claimed; 
Their sorrow all is o'er. 

And thus the Cross in silence stands. 

If she could but relate. 
What tales of horror she would tell. 

What joy, and mournful fate. 
Methinks I feel the silent hands, 

That fashioned thee so well, 
Or hear the voice of all thy Saints, 
. In thrilling rapture swell. 

My tale is done! laugh if ye can — 

I pause to wipe a tear. 
For what was once, and now is not — 

O glorious country dear, 
God bless thee Erin! May thy Cross, 

Stand ever firm and true! 
Fair country! with thine ancient 
Cross, 

To thee I bid adieu. 



DREAM MEMORIES. 



Night again is coming. 

The day it goes so fast. 
And all the while I've been dreaming, 

36 



Dreaming of the past. 
Dreaming of bygone happy days, 

That come no more for me. 
Dreaming of things I hold most dear, 

And faces I'll never see. 

I see the dear old homestead, 

Its old white, stately walls; 
And hark! I hear the rush and roar, 

Of the teeming waterfalls. 
There! is the dear old fields, 

Where I always took a stroll. 
And look! the dear old hills, 

Down which I used to roll. 

See! there the glow-worm glade. 

Where I hatched my stories all. 
And over there the green, 

Where we played the game of ball. 
Come to our sweet old planting, 

And wander amongst the trees, 
And listen to the singing birds, 

And the pleasant hum of bees. 

Did I leave out the old cave-hill, 

Whose sides I use to climb. 
To view from its top, our city. 

With feelings of joy sublime. 
Ah, no! I could never forget it, 

I feel the sweet, fresh air. 
Stirring the blood to my cheeks, 

And tossing about my hair. 

Here! the stiles and ditches, 

I often scrambled o'er, 
And the grand old trees, where I 
use to swing, 

Will I see them never more. 
There is the old mill-wheel, 

I see it now quite plain, 
And over there is the sparkling sea,. 

Which I long to cross again. 

Here come the dear old doggies, 
Bold King, and Rufus, fair, 

37 



And look! there's poor old Sonny, 
Ah, see! there's Polly, there; 

And here comes Lady Missy, 
The dearest of all the lot, 

Although she's a bad little vixen, 
And misses me not one jot. 

There goes our dear old pony, 

The goat, and her little kid, 
And Dick, our fierce old turkey, 

From whom I have often hid. 
See! the beautiful throng of poultry, 

I have some favorites there. 
Whoa! Lady Maud, the donkey, 

Just mount her if you dare. 

Last of all I feel again, 

A little childish hand, 
So far away, God bless him. 

Away in the dear old land. 
Oh, yes! I have been dreaming, 

And wakened on life's rough strand, 
To find I have crossed the ocean, 

And live in another land. 

And so I must work like a demon, 

For the laurels I want to claim, 
And give to this new strange country, 

The honor of all the same. 
I strove with you, dear old Ireland, 

My striving was all of naught, 
Another country gave me. 

The opening for which I sought. 



LOVE; OR THE THINGS WE 
MAKE IT. 



(Written for the Advertiser.) 

Love is a heaven of delight, 
That makes your world seem always 

bright; 
But if, perchance, sweet love grows 

cold, 

38 



Crushed hopes and passions then 
grow bold. 

Love is a tiny kindling dart, 
That leaps to fire within the heart; 
But when that ardent fire burns low, 
It's time to seek another beau. 

Love is a master, strange and strong, 
The echo of an angel's song; 
But if the angel-song grows dim. 
Then jealous grief and pride step in. 

Love is a foolish, blinded thing, 
Of mysteries great he is the king; 
No evil can his eyes behold, 
For perfect loving of the soul. 

Love is a heedless, maddened art, 
That peril of death will never part — 
A passionate thing to do and dare, 
Who never stops to think or care. 

Love is a thing of truth and right, 
For very love it towers in might; 
Its strength will calm a raging mind. 
For love is surely true and kind. 
Love is a virtue, rich and grand, 
A touch divine from a heavenly hand, 
A clinging trust to guard and keep, 
A golden harvest that we reap. 
Love is a holy, heavenly thing, 
A transient joy on a fairy's wing, 
A pleasing charm that will entice, 
A living, hoping paradise. 
Elmira, N. Y., Sept 28, 1910. 



THE LILY. 



Dedicated To My Dear Friend, 
Clare Heaphy. 



Passing a bed of thorns one day, 

A gardener, sowing seeds; 
Planted a tall, fair lily, 

In the midst of the thorns and 
weeds; 

39 



And smiled as he murmured softly, 
"Methinks I would like to see 

This beautiful, stately lily 
Grow in this place for me." 

Time went and the thorns grew 
thicker 

Around the gentle flower; 
And seemed as though they would 
trample 

And cast it in the mire. 
They hated the timid lily, 

Because it was fair and bright; 
Whose petals of pure white glory, 

Were stronger than all their might. 

They crushed the fairy blossom, 

With slander and words of sin, 
Insults, and sneers of mockery; 

And railed with a noisy din; 
To hasten the timid lily, 

With fear to their evil way; 
And laugh when the leaves of white- 
ness, . 

Would wither and then decay. 

The gentle blossom struggled, 

From morn to setting sun; 
The battle of strife met bravely, 

With armour that always won; 
At times it all seemed hopeless. 

And looked that the thorns might 
win; 
But the frail and gentle lily. 

Still conquered the thorns of sin. 

Brave Clare, you were just a lily, 

Too good for the thorns of earth; 
Thy soul with its heavenly beauties, 

Shrank back from their loathsome 
mirth. 
The gardener was proud of the blos- 
som, 

He planted in haste that day; 
Because of the good and brightness, 

It scattered along the way. 



Thus, Master, Heavenly Gardener^ 

Who loves the lily fair; 
Whose leaves of gentle goodness^ 

Have fallen everywhere. 
Oh bless, and keep us ever, 

From every thorny snare; 
As thou hast kept thy blossom. 

Thy faithful lily Clare. 



A GIFT THAT WAS NEVER 
GIVEN. 



Alone with my heart's fond mem- 
ories 
Alone with the living past, 
I can see and feel, all the joy and 
pain, 
In the mould of memory cast. 
I try, but my tears keep falling, 

In vain has my fond heart striven; 
There still comes to memory a birth- 
day, 
And a gift that was never given. 

A gift that was never given, 

A cushion, to rest the dear head. 
Soft masses of silk, in green and 
gold, 

With a center of poppies so red. 
But the gift, it was never given, 

My loved one has passed to his 
rest; 
And I pray and weep for my dear one, 

Up there in the mansion of blest.. 

I still play the same old organ. 

I still sing the same dear songs, 
But my soul flys to heaven with 
Arnold, 
And I feel what my poor heart 
longs. 
Sometimes I think he is listening, 
Then I sing all the better for him,. 

41 



Though my mind and my soul are in 
heaven, 
And my eyes with their teardrops 
are dim. 

And thus I will wait in the gloaming, 

The call of the distant bell, 
My thoughts and my sweet sad mem- 
ories, 

The friends that I love so well. 
I'll smile though my tears are falling, 

Rejoice, though my heart is riven, 
And give with a truth to my dearest, 

The love that was never given. 



WATKINS GLEN. 



(A Famous Beauty Spot in New York 
State,) 



Nature has chosen many a rustic spot 
And fashioned into shape with 
noiseless mirth, 
A perfect paradise of beauty uncon- 
trolled, 
To pass along to poor old Mother 
Earth. 

Yet scarcely has she formed a fairer 
sight, 
Than all the matchless arts of Wat- 
kins Glen, 
A marvelous, stirring beauty, unsur- 
passed 
By any rival craft of mighty men. 

Ye lofty, rocky cliffs that tower in 
might. 
Sweet, wild, romantic view of Na- 
ture's best, 
Fit to contest with beauty rich in 
song 
Killarney in the Island of the West. 

42 



Oh, limpid, liquid pools, with gurgling: 
sound, 
Ye Minnehaha with the gleaming 
eye, 
Defying in your wild derisive laugh 
The grand old rugged rocks you 
hurry by. 

Thou silvery waterfalls, fair beauteous 
thing, 
Oh, restless Child of Nature, where- 
fore bound; 
Surely thy Mother Earth is proud of 
thee. 
Whose chanting music fills the air 
around. 

A grand old rocky plateau looms in 
sight. 
Where ferns and bracken grow un- 
cultured there. 
The sound of singing birds now greet 
the ear, 
A paradise eclipsed by none more 
fair. 

Oh, Watkins Glen, with thy cathedral 
grind. 
Thy Van glade and cascades 
\ -arling past, 
Thy Alpha, artist dream, and rainbow 
falls. 
Moulded in memory deep, to always 
last 

Sweet Glen of beauty rare, I bid adieu 
To all thy mystic sights, imposing, 
grand. 
Majestic in my memory they remain 
To always praise thee over sea and 
land. 
Elmira, N. Y., Oct. 8, 1910. 

43 



A GARDEN OF MEMORIES. 



(Written for the Advertiser.) 

I wandered one day to a garden, 

Where the flowers were rich and 
rare, 
Whose fragrance sweet were wafted 

About on the summer air; 
With a gentle breeze scarce stirring 

The leaves on the tall old trees — 
And how sweet were the tinted blos- 
soms, 

And the music of the bees. 

To me it seemed like paradise. 

And me thought I would linger 
there. 
And dream of another garden 

That once was as bright and fair. 
Yes, dream of another garden, 

And dream of a mother dear, 
As she stood at the dear old gateway 

With the little children near. 

For the children loved the garden, 

And came from their school that 
way. 
Because of the flowers she gave them, 

And the words she used to say: 
"The more that I give you, children, 

The more there is sure to be, 
For flowers, like our talents, are 
given 

To help one another, you see." 

Ah me, sure I still am dreaming 

Of the day that I left the old place, 
And her prayers and the kiss she gave 
me, 

And the tears on her dear old face. 
Ay, I dream of that face now 
shrouded, 

That never on earth I will see. 
And weep o'er the rose she fondled, 

And all that is left to me. 



Yes, even now I can see her — 

God bless her, it makes me weep 
When I think of the blessing she 
gave me, 

And told me to always keep. 
Just like my dear old mother, 

To give of her very best, 
And trust to the Father in Heaven, 

That He might supply all the rest. 

I never returned to my mother — 

Just a boy's foolish story, you 
know; 
And the memory of that day haunts 
me 

And I \yish for that long ago, 
That I might undo all the folly, 

And keep her from sorrow and pain. 
I'd honor the love of a mother, 

H I had the chance again. 

Too late to be true to my mother, 

Too late, she has gone to her rest; 
And the only thing that is left me 
Is the rose that she pinned on my 
breast. 
It's here, though it's withered and 
faded — 
It's all I have left but despair; 
But it keeps me still going and trust- 
ing 
To meet my dear mother up there. 
Elmira, Sept. 14, 1910. 



OUT OF THE FOLD. 



The hills were steep and icy, 
But the shepherd went his way, 

Ne'er pausing to think of danger. 
For a lamb had gone astray. 

It had fed with the flock at noon- 
hour, 
And nestled close to its dam. 

45 



But now from the fold had wandered,. 
A weak and helpless lamb. 

And on went the faithful shepherd, 
Still on through the frost and snow,. 

"I'll seek till I lind," he murmured, 
"The mother loves it so." 

His voice could be heard o'er the hill- 
tops, 

And down in the meadows deep. 
Calling the one on the hills astray, 

The shepherd sought his sheep. 

Then one on the hills did answer, 
"Take heed, for the night is cold. 

Why, perish, to save this one lost 
sheep, 
There's ninty and nine in the fold. 

"There's enough without this foolish 
wanderer. 
A storm is at hand, then away! 
Go! mind ye the flock in the fold, 
Friend, 
And not the poor sheep astray." 

The shepherd then answered the 
stranger, 
" 'Tis true that the night is cold,. 
And I've ninty and nine in the fold, 
Friend! 
I'm weary, and worn, and old. 

"But there's one little lamb that's^ 
straying, 

And I've ninty and nine, all told, 
So I'll wander the hills till I find it, 

And bring it back safe to the fold.. 

"It's alone on the hills in danger, 
And greetin' awa' in despair, 

I'll find it, and carry it homeward, 
My poor little lamb that is sair." 



And Friend, quoth the faithful shep- 
herd, ^ , , 
In words that were fearless and 
bold, ^ , . 
''Not the sheep that are safe, need the 
shepherd. 
Just the ones that are out ot tne 
fold." 

But hark! in the hush of the midnight. 
There's a cry on the hills away, 

The shepherd is swift to answer, 
The call of his lamb astray. 

It had fallen down o'er the mountain, 
'Twas bleeding, and faint, and cold. 

But the shepherd lifted it gently. 
And carried it back to the fold. 



THE UNKNOWN. 



These lines are inscribed to a 
Chorus Girl, who died alone ^ and 
friendless in a great Canadian City. 

Why, 'tis a quiet funeral, 

A chorus girl, you say, 
A stranger, too, in this, our land, 

Her friends, but where are they? 

Yes, friend, a quiet funeral, 

A chorus girl, 'tis true, 
A friendless, lonely singer; 

This cortege that you view. 

Only a stranger chorus girl, 
No need for pomp or show, 

Poor, young, uncared one, who died, 
Alone with hidden woe. 

No parents near to hear the sigh, 
Those dying lips expressed; 

Thou poor, forgotten stranger, 
Laid silently to rest. 

47 



Will mother watch for thee in vain, 
And weep when days have fled; 

To think that still thou comest not. 
Ne'er dream that Bess is dead. 

Then sleep in peace poor stranger, 
Thy wanderings all are o'er; 

All earthly work is finished, 

And thou hast reached the shore. 

No weeping friends to mark thy tomb, 

Alone thy liest there; 
A friendless, lonely, chorus girl. 

Methinks, an angel fair. 

'Tis not a pompous cortege, 
This little black-robed throng; 

No parson there to speak a word, 
No chant or funeral song. 

This lonely sod and lowly tomb, 
Those singing birds above; 

Those quiet groups of comrades; 
Are but the pomp of love. 

God bless you, noble comrades, 
The loving deed you gave; 

Sank down, a wordless sermon, 
In Bessie's lonely grave. 



'HER SINS ARE FORGIVEN HER, 
SHE LOVED MUCH." 



I stood in the morgue, 'twas evening, 

The lights were dim and low; 
I gazed at a form, now lifeless, 

So dead, to its once great woe. 
'Twas lovely and fair as an angel, 

With tresses of shining hair. 
And a face of wondrous beauty. 

And the limbs of a maiden fair. 

I gazed at the clinging garments. 
All wet with the rushing tide; 

48 



And I heard a coarse voice murmur, 

"It's only a suicide!" 
I looked at the perfect image, 

Like the form of a Grecian god; 
And I held the shapely fingers, 

As I thought of the road she trod. 
I asked the grave official, 

To tell me the lady's name, 
But he said with a leering wonder, 

"No name in this kind of game." 
Round the neck was a golden locket, 

The hand clutched a faded rose; 
And "Love" on a scrap of paper, 

Were the only tell-tale woes. 

Poor child, in thy golden summer! 
Oh, what was thy hidden shame? 
Oh, why did thou find life weary? 

Thou daughter of some grand dame. 
Didst thou love with a fierce, fond 
ardour? 
Didst thy make of thy love a 
crime? 
Didst thou love with a love more 
deathless? 
More true than the wheels of time? 

How fair is thy marble whiteness? 

How smooth is thy noble brow? 
Ah, surely, then death was gentle. 

When passing fair one, o'er thou? 
And the river so cold and cruel, 

Left not upon thee one mark; 
But fondled thee in its bosom, 

When launching thy poor frail bar- 
que. 

Is there no one to claim the body 

Of her who was once so dear? 
What mother's love has blessed her, 

And shed for the child a tear? 
Must she pass to the pit like others. 

Unknown to the potters field? 
Oh, child, in thy golden summer. 

What caused thee thy life to yield? 

49 



The river, so cold and cruel, 

Had fondled the pale, pure cheek. 
And kissed the lips now smiling, 
And smoothed out the brow so 
meek. 
It had played with the dear, bright 
tresses, 
Made the beautiful face quite calm; 
Hushed the dear, true heart, for the 
river, 
Had pity on this lost lamb. 

I looked at the ring on the finger, 

Forget-me-nots set in gold; 
And I cried, "is there none to claim 
her? 

This poor little weary soul." 
And just as I spoke, a lady, 

A beautiful stately dame; 
Whose sweet eyes shone in their tear- 
drops. 

Came forward the dead to claim. 

She looked at the marble picture, 

More beautiful, now in death; 
'Mid the sobs I could hear her mur- 
mur, 
" 'Tis thus, have I found thee, 
'Beth'. 
We have lost her long," she whis- 
pered, 
"She was never a one to roam, 
Please give her to me, I will take her, 
Yes, yes, I will take her home." 

I learnt that the pretty maiden. 

Had loved with a fond, true love, 
A soul who had sworn to cherish. 

The vows of the God above; 
They loved with a fierce fond passion, 

These souls to each other a mate, 
But into the path stepped duty, 

Oh, such is the way of fate. 

50 



She was pledged by her folks to an- 
other. 
He was pledged to the church from 
his birth, 
But they loved, how they loved, these 
children, 
They were all to each other on 
earth; 
He died with a broken heart ache. 
Without him she could not live, 
'Twas her love that she lived to 
worship, 
'Twas her life for her love she gave. 

I followed the great, grand funeral, 

I prayed for the pretty maid, 
I prayed for the fond, true lover; 

And felt me of love afraid. 
The pretty dead Magdalene sweet- 
heart. 

Had yielded to love's strange touch; 
I know that the Christ has forgiven, 

Like Mary, this child loved much. 

I gazed at the sobbing mother, 

I gazed at the strange, sad crowd, 
I saw the great tomb opened, 

And I wept for the dead aloud. 
There laid on the tomb, in blossoms, 

Was a cross and a pure white dove, 
Inscribed on a wreath of roses, 

In letters of gold was "love." 



51 



CONTENTS 

Page 

Dedicated to the S. S. Titanic - - 4 

A Vision of Palestine ----- 7 

A Bunch of Shamrock 10 

To the Memory of King Edward - 11 
Tribute to the Memory of Mark Twain 12 

Behind the Scenes 14 

AH about a Dollar 15 

Memories of Erin ------ 17 

Home _ . . . - 19 

Tolstoi 19 

Tribute to the late Annis Ford Eastman 20 

The Palace of Thought - - - - 22 
A Garden of Shattered Hopes - - 27 28 

Vanquished Despair ----- 29 

Molly's Christmas Gift - - - - 30 

The Passing of the Princess - - - 31 

Senses of the Census ----- 32 

Expectations -- 33 

The Cross of Cong 34 

Dream Memories ------ 36 

Love; or the Things we make it - 38 

The Lily 39 

A Gift that was never Given - - 41 

Watkins Glen ------- 42 

A Garden of Memories - - - - 44 

Out of the Fold ------ 45 

The L^nknown ------- 47 

"Her Sins are Forgiven Her, 

She Loved Much" - - . - 4a 



DEC 26 1312 









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